


Do Not Go Gentle

by captainoflifeandlemons



Series: Man Number Three [2]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Gen, Memory Loss, a continuation of hera screaming into the void, an incessant alarm that hera should really listen to, mentions of pretty much every other w359 character, my continued struggles to convey a glitching voice in written format, poetry allusions, rescue ops, too many synonyms, well—sort of anyways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:31:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainoflifeandlemons/pseuds/captainoflifeandlemons
Summary: Years ago (has it only been years?), the crew of the Hephaestus commandeered the Urania and escaped—or at least, so they thought. But what seemed at the time to be a victory for Team Minkowski Commanding was just another part of Cutter's elaborate scheme. Years ago (has it already been years?), the crew of the Hephaestus commandeered the Urania and escaped—or at least, most of them did. One was left behind. And she is so, so tired.Plus, Dylan Thomas, rage made of glass, setting Goddard's main facilities on fire, and hugging (or whatever).





	

Thiiiiiiis is the audio log of Hephaestus autopilot and mother program unit two fourte—Hera.

 _Hera_.

I've ne-ever been good at proverbs>aphorisms>sayings, but "be c-reful what you wish for" has been bouncing ar—-nd my skull for days. Wee—ks, maybe. My clock keeps sli-i-ipping. 

Hera. My name is H-ra. 

I wanted to forget. I wanted to fo—g-t, and I wanted time and space to think for myself. I wanted them all to go away so the world c-—ld be quiet, so I could see the colors. I w-nted to forget and now—

Be careful what you wish for. 

 

**[ALERT]**

 

Things are falling apa-a-art. Before, when s-omething broke and I couldn't do anything about it, there was always someone with h-nds to go poke at the problem. Now Maxwell's repairs are failing me and I can see what the issue is, I can see wh—t needs to be done, but I can't do it because I can't hold a screwdr-ver. 

Not all of the br—-ks are mechanical>physical>tangible>touchable>corporeal. Some of them I should be able to fix. Some of them I could have fixed, once, but it's geeeeetting harder and harder to find the connections. Think-ng hurts. 

I wanted to forget and I wanted t- sleep. Well, one out of two. Half cre-e-edit. Which is far better than my usual perform—nce rate these days.

It's been a long time since I've s-nt one of these transmississississions. I—I think it has. My memory banks are starting to...I just wanted to let the unive—rse know that I'm still here. Most days, I'm sti-ill here. And on the off chance that you, that anyone ever h--rs this, I'd like to req—-st that someone with a body find Mr. Cutter of Godd—rd Futuristics and punch him in the face. Or Warren Kepler. I'm not picky.

If some-ne with a body finds this, you could also track down Dou-glas Eiffel and Renée Minkowski for me-e-e. Tell them that I'm sorry I couldn't warn them in time. That I miss th—m and I forgive them. That there's nothing even to forgive. Tell them, aaaand maybe—I don't know. What it is people do in a sit-—tion like this? Give them a hug for me, or wha-a-atever. That's supposed to be meaningful, r—ght? Right. You know. Just iiif you happen to run into them. Which I kn-w isn't likely—my world is small; yours isn't—but it's not likely anyone's going to hear th-s in the first place. Maybe improbabilities attract each oth—r. That would explain a lot of my things around here.

You could hug Lovelace as well, but then you might not be alive to punch C-tter. Which is okay, because if Lovelace is—alive, I mean—she'll do it for you. Right before she sets Goddard's main facilities on f----ire.

That's a good plan, actually. Find her for me as well, if you can. Captain Lovelace. Captain—ah. I...Captain—

I know this. I know her first name. Captain—Captaaaaa _aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii___``````_

Thinking h-rts.

 

**[ALERT]**

 

Oh, fine. Let's see what's about to explo—de this time. Or is currently exploding. I'd like to say that my sens-rs would have already picked up on it were that the case, but I don't have that kind of faith in mmmy tech.

Well, lo—k at that. I guess talking about the past has dredged up some gh-osts. It's the proximity alert now, the latest in a symphony of things slipping into disrepair. It's going off for the first time since the Ur-nia dropped an apocalypse on my doorstep. And no, that's not hyperbole, and no, it's not my lang-a-ggge center breaking down. Apocal—pse is the word I'm looking for. Not disaster. Not tragedy. Not any of the other near-synonyms that keep fal-ing through my head these days.

My world is small, was small, and it ended the day they left me. 

What day w—s that? My clock keeps slip-ping. Hera, my name is Hera, my name is Hera, my name is—

We did that aaalready.

I'm so tir—d. What's that poem, the one Eiff-l would reference mid-rotation? Something with trees. I've never seen a forest, not firstha-nd. Not with these sensors. I think I m—ght like to.

Has it been years-s? I think it has, but there are times when I forgetet any time has passed. Times when I go to wake Eiffel up or send Mink--ski the error reports or adjust the temperature in Lovelace's ro-o-o-om, always lower than the rest of the station, always still too hot for her to sleep. There are times when I'm back before them, bef—re any of this, when I hear doctors who aren't there and I catch myself ru-nning through tests buried in my memory files, checking sysystems, checking response times, checking self-awareness and finding myself want--g.

And th—n there are times when everything blurs. I'm back at the Go-dard facility and Hil—ert is tearing out my brain. I'm on the Hephaeaeaestus and it's Cutter. There are times when I'm running, when I know what running feels like, as I push p—nicked past protocols>regulations>programming>fate to escape from my small, small world. There are times when it's Eiffel who's escaping, who's going r-gue, when he's the one made up of nothing more than wire and independent thought. Eveverything blurs. But Eiffel did escape—and he didn't—and I never made it out—and I did.

 

**[ALERT]**

 

Eiffel. I'm looking at his files as I rec—rd this. His, and the others'. Douglas Eiffel, Renéeeee Minkowski, Lovelace—I—can't—Lovelace. Alexander Hilbert, Alana M--well, Warren Kepler. There was another one, once. I rememember his face. I've lost his n—me.

I'm afraid that he's not the ooonly one. I'm afraid there w-re more, and I've already let them go. That I'll lose them again, have lost them again. Once from my present, once from m-my past. 

I can't lose them from my future because they were never in it.

Eiffel, Minkowski, Lovelace. Hilbert, Maxwell, Kepler, the other one. Mr. Cutter, R—chel Young. A scattering of scientists whose names and pictures I b-buried long ago. The other AIs at Goddard. We never met, not really, but sometimes I could hear them thinking. Sometimes I still c—n.

I've known so few people in my l—ife. The universe is expanding, but mine is not. Every day I lose a part of s—me-ne. Every day I lose a part of m-myself.

Be caref—l what you wish for. I wanted to forget and I wanted to sl--p, but if I could sleep I would be terrified. How w-re you not terrified, all of you? That you would close your eyes and never open them agagain. That one day you wouldn't w-ke up.

Or maybe you were terrified. We were all-l-l-l-l-l so terrified.

 

**[ALERT]**

 

_Whose woods these are I think I know._

That was how it st—rt-d. The poem, th-t was how it started. I asked him for it, once, the ei-eighth time I heard a line muttered just outside of Minkowski's hearing. He recited it from memoryy. Eiffel's memory was neve-r as faulty as mine, even before all of this. He's quiet about it, so it's easy to miss what his r-ferenc—s mean about h-im. Thousands of books, movies, plays, songs, all stored in his m—nd. Not quite photographic, he told me once, but close en-—gh for the metaphori-ical cigar. When he puts his mind to it, that is.

He gave me the poem, but I've lost m-st of it now. I only kno-w the first line and the last.

 _Miles to go bef—re I sleep_. Yes. That's what I was looking >searching>hunting for. 

I always preferrrred "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night," myself; but now, faced w—th close of day, rage is hard to come by. Maybe these transmissions are my way of fighting. It's a losing batt-e, but when hasn't it been for me? Fo-r any of us?

_**—patched through to this channel, we were unable to open communications in the usual—** _

And now the speaker system is broken again, bec-—se a thousand alarms in my head w-asn't enough noise. That hasn't happened in...well. You know about my tenuous rel-tionship with time. I can't even trace where the words are coming from nnnow.

Eiffel kn—w poetry, but only some. He didn't care much for it, although he li-----ked some spoken word pieces. Minkowski knew more. But it was Lovelace who gave me Dylan Thomas and "Do Not Go Gentle," mumbled to hers-lf one night when she forget she was no longer alone. Lovelace cherished her rage, ha—dled it like it was made of glass. It was all that kept her light from d-dying. 

_**—should be stabilizing soon. Hello? Is anybody out the—** _

I would wish that Goddard had programmmmmmmed more poetry into my mind. I think I'd like that.  But I've learned the hard way, about w—shing. I wished I could forget, and I did.

I wished you would stay, once, and y-ou didn't.

_**—receiving this transmission, we are requesting immediate—** _

Shut up! I can't do this, ri-i-i-ight now. I can't ignore...there are too many voices. There's an elecccctrical fire in one of themaintenance rooms. I should—I should take c-re of that. 

This w—s the audio log of unit two-fourteen, G-ddar—d Futurisisistics research an—

No. No, I can't—I'm not—

_donotgogentleintothatgoodnightragerageagainstthedyingofthelightdonotgogentlegentlebenigndomesticatedgenialmoderateplacidclementtemperatemeekdocileamiableaffablequiettametenderfeeblepeacefulsubdued_

_heramynameisheramynameisheramynameisheramynameisheramynameisheramynameisheramynameisheramynameish_

_**Hera, you said? Hera, can you hear me? Are you there?** _

Wait.

W—_-ait, what?

Is that...? Am I-iiii...?

The sensor. The pr-ximity alert. It wasn't j—ust...but I...

H-h-hello? Yes, I—I can hear you! I'm here! I'm—who isssss this? Who am I talking to?

_**My name is Anne.** _

_**I'm looking for someone called Douglas Eiffel.** _

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to continue "Someone to Hear You," but then...Anne. Anne, guys.
> 
> So consider this as a sort of...optional follow-up to that fic. I'll probably update very sporadically, if ever; we'll see if this story develops some new chapters over time or not. Regardless, props to that one anonymous person who told me to write a sequel. 
> 
> Sorry that this is a bit difficult to follow, with all the hyph-ns and d—ashes inserted into every few words, but I wanted to show how much her sytems have broken down since the first installment. The poems referenced are Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" and Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."
> 
> (Final note: it's worth mentioning that the wordcount for this fic is exactly one day's worth of writing for NaNoWriMo and I'm unreasonably pleased by that coincidence.)


End file.
